


A Study in Scarlet and Gold

by RileyAnnaOlson



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Pre-Canon, Pre-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-06-09 22:36:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6926440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyAnnaOlson/pseuds/RileyAnnaOlson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1989. The Berlin Wall hasn't fallen yet, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade is the year's top movie, and John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are going to Hogwarts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"John. John!" Eleven-year-old John Watson turned to see a short, pudgy boy hurrying across platform nine and three-quarters toward him. "You're here too!"

"Hullo, Mike," John said, pleased to find a familiar face. No one who knew him and Mike in primary school would call them best friends, but anyone he recognised in this strange place was welcome. The boys shifted their luggage around in their arms to shake hands, then mounted the steps of the Hogwarts Express together.

"Surprised when you got your letter?" Mike asked. "I was."

"More surprised the owl found us halfway round the world," John said with a laugh.

"That's right! How was your trip?"

John's face fell. "It would have been better if Father hadn't been working the whole time," he muttered.

"Ah, well," Mike said. "Where should we sit?"

"Let's find an empty compartment. I doubt anyone would want to sit with me," John sighed.

Mike gave him an odd glance. "D'you know," he said, "you're the second person who's said that to me today." He paused, thinking. "Come along. You might like him." He headed for the back of the train, John trailing after.

"Hullo, Sherlock? Do you mind if John and I sit with you?"

The compartment was empty excepting a tall, pale boy with curly black hair. He was engrossed in a book so heavy John wondered how he was holding it up, and didn't react until Mike repeated the question.

"What? Oh, fine." He watched John hoist his trunk into the rack overhead, then said conversationally, "Hot in the Middle East this summer, was it?"

"I spent most of my time in hotels, so…" John stopped and stared hard at Sherlock, who had returned to his book. "How?" He didn't bother finishing his sentence. Somehow he got the idea the other boy's mind had long since gone on to another thought.

The first half hour or so of the journey passed with no conversation. Mike and John tried to talk, but Sherlock's overbearing silence filled the compartment and stifled any outside noise except the rain drilling against the compartment window.

"Does anyone have the time?" Sherlock said.

"I don't have a watch," Mike said glumly.

"Just a minute." John tugged his trunk from the rack, then collapsed into his seat as the train lurched around a corner. "Eleven thirty-five," he said, once he had dug his watch out of the bottom of the trunk.

"Thank you," Sherlock said. "Muggle-borns, both of you, I suppose?" he asked.

"Yes, both of us," said John. Rubbed the wrong way by the other boy's self-satisfied face as he settled back in his seat, he added, "Is that a problem?"

"Not at all," Sherlock replied. "You'll find no one you'd want to be friends with cares about blood. My whole family is pureblood, but I-"

"-might as well be a Squib, and would prefer it that way, right?" A corpulent boy who had already changed into black robes and a green-and-silver tie swaggered into the compartment, taking up half the space. Sherlock instantly slouched behind his book and adopted a sullen expression.

"What's a Squib?" John asked curiously.

"A Squib," the older boy explained, "is a person of magical parentage with no innate magical abilities of their own."

"Oh."

"Sherlock." When he didn't respond, but gripped his book tighter, the newcomer continued without waiting for a sign of recognition. "Mummy told me to check on you, see you're making...suitable friends." He looked disdainfully at the other two in the compartment. "She said you'd sit by yourself all day otherwise and never speak to anyone."

"You can tell Mummy," Sherlock said, finally sitting straight, "I will be fine. And if you need something more specific in your report, this is Mike Stamford and John Watson. They're Muggle-borns, previous friends. John has just been along with his parents to the Middle East for a business trip. He has an older brother named Harry, and he's planning on being a soldier when he grows up. Enough to be going on with, don't you think, Mycroft?" And without another word, he refocused on his book, ignoring the looks of shock on John's face and the annoyance on the older boy's.

"Well," Mycroft said, "I suppose that will be 'enough to be going on with.' Lovely to meet you Stamford, Watson. Good luck with your new...acquaintance." He turned on his heel and left the compartment.

"We got rid of him easily this time," Sherlock said from behind his book. "He'll be back, never fear. Useless, brothers are," he added in an undertone.

John was inclined to agree with the last sentence, but he had more pressing worries than the reappearance of the enigmatic Mycroft. "How did you know about me?" he asked. "Did Mike tell you?"

"Not a word," Mike said.

"Did you use magic?" he asked, more excited. To his surprise, Sherlock scowled. "Sorry...I guess. But then how?"

"I figured it out." Sherlock looked insufferably proud of the fact.

"Come off it, you did not!"

"I did so."

"Prove it."

"Willingly," Sherlock said, closing his book for the first time since they'd met. "Look at you. Muggle trunks, Muggle watch, Muggle look of awe at everything around you. You couldn't be anything but Muggle-borns. Easy."

"Fair," John said. "Everything else?"

"You answered for both of you when I asked if you were Muggle-borns. How could you know that from twenty minutes' acquaintance? Could have asked him, but you were offended when I asked you, so not likely. Conclusion: you knew each other before this. Don't know how long, but there you are."

"Brilliant!" Mike said, his eyes wide.

John wasn't quite as impressed. "And what about me? You know I've been to the Middle East, you know about my family - how the devil did you know I want to be a soldier? I haven't told anyone!"

"First, I saw your trunk. There were at least five tags on the handle, the ones they put on your luggage at the airport. Most of them were torn off, but two were from Jerusalem and Tehran. You've been in the Middle East. But why? You're very tan, but your wrists and neck are white still. You haven't been sunbathing, besides, you said you spent all your time in hotels. It wasn't a pleasure trip, at least not for your pleasure. It couldn't have been a wedding or family event; five different places? It must have been a business trip.

Now your brother. Your trunk was quite expensive - about five years ago. The name on the front says Harry Watson. So it wasn't originally yours. It wouldn't have been a gift; who gives someone a banged-up five-year-old trunk with their name on? It must have been handed down to you. But from whom? The name is written in a child's handwriting, so it can't have been a parent's. It's blue, which is a stereotypically masculine colour, especially for children. That rules out a sister named Harriet or some such nonsense. Must have been an older brother, then. See?

As to being a soldier, in your trunk are two pamphlets about the British army, one about the Israeli army, and an adult's book about the history of the Second World War. You're eleven and already picking up pamphlets? Also, you have a military haircut and you try to stand like a soldier. Already practising. This isn't just some whim; this is a calculated plan. There now."

"That was amazing," John conceded.

"You really think so?" Sherlock asked, sincerely pleased at the praise.

"Of course."

"Usually people don't think it's amazing," Sherlock said.

"Mad you discovered their secrets?" John asked.

"No. They think I used magic, so it isn't all that special. But I don't!" he said hotly. "I don't. That's no fun at all. I hate using magic, it makes everything too easy. That's why Mycroft calls me a Squib. I wish I lived with Muggles, it would be so much more interesting."

"It's not that exciting," John said. "I'd much rather live like this." He gestured at the train to indicate the Wizarding world.

"I'll grant you magic gives you more free time," Sherlock said, "more time to do what you really like. But Muggle crimes are so much more exciting than Wizarding crimes. If a Muggle was murdered in a room locked from the inside with no marks on the body, that's something. Here it's dull. They Apparated and used the Avada Kedavra curse. Dull, boring, waste of thought." He sat forward and lowered his voice, as though telling them a great secret. "I've been studying Muggles. That's how I knew how old your suitcase was and all. I want to know absolutely everything about them, because," he took a deep breath, "I want to be a detective for Muggles. I'll solve crimes better than any Muggle can, and I'll never use magic."


	2. Chapter 2

John stood stiff as a rail between Mike and Sherlock at the front of the Great Hall, painfully conscious of all the eyes on him. Everyone looked so tall, even sitting down. He wasn't scared, of course, but the only people he knew who actually liked this kind of attention joined amateur theater companies.

The fierce-looking witch who had shown them into the Hall said, "When I call your names you will sit on the stool. I will place the Sorting Hat on your head, and it will tell you your House. When you have been Sorted you may go to your House table." She looked at a parchment scroll. Apparently wizards still used that sort of thing, or maybe the old-timey stuff was for grand opening ceremonies. "Alder, Jeffrey."

Jeffrey Alder, a wiry boy with scrubby brown hair, stepped up to the stool, almost tripping over his own feet in the process. The lady set the dirty old hat on his head, and he sat for a minute before the hat shouted, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

The second table from the right burst into applause. Jeffrey Alder, looking quite relieved, took off the hat and stumbled to a seat, where the older students greeted him warmly.

John gave a little sigh of relief. He was glad they didn't have to take some kind of test; Sherlock would have got in easily enough, and others like him, but what would the Muggle-borns have done?

As the Sorting went along the line grew shorter and shorter. "Brant, Isabella," was the first Ravenclaw, and John noticed Sherlock glance at that table with a hint of longing. "Diggory, Cedric" became a Hufflepuff, but he was Jeffrey Alder's absolute opposite, with his perfect smile and perfect hair. "Fillmore, Rosaline," joined Slytherin. Mycroft sat at the head of that table, immensely puffed up as he observed the proceedings.

Finally, the witch called, "Holmes, Sherlock!"

"Good luck," John whispered as Sherlock left the line, supreme confidence on his face.

The hat had barely touched his head when it shouted, "RAVENCLAW!" The second table from the left cheered, but John saw Mycroft had something of a sour look. Sherlock couldn't have been happier.

John cursed his miserable luck for being stuck at the end of the alphabet.

"Johnson, Angelina."

"GRYFFINDOR!"

"Jordan, Lee."

"GRYFFINDOR!"

"Pucey, Adrian."

"SLYTHERIN!"

Sometimes, John noticed, it took the hat a long time to figure out which House to sort the student into, and sometimes only seconds. He hoped it wouldn't take long with him.

"Stamford, Michael!"

"Oh, blimey, here I go," Mike said under his breath. He needn't have worried. After a bit of though, the hat sent him to Hufflepuff and his new classmates greeted him with a thunderous round of applause.

Finally, four boys were left in line: John, a boy who looked entirely too big to be eleven, and a pair of redheaded, freckly twins who had hardly stopped whispering and laughing with each other since the Sorting began.

"Warrington, Cassius."

The giant of a boy became a Slytherin, and John's stomach turned a cartwheel. Unless the twins were named Washington, he was next.

They weren't. "Watson, Jonathan." Taking his courage in his hands, he marched up to the stool. He sat and for a moment looked out at the Great Hall before the Sorting Hat fell over his face.

"Well, well," said a voice, which John realized with a start was coming from the hat itself. "Look at you. You aren't much of a puzzle; it's clear as day where you ought to be. Brave at heart, that's you. Which means GRYFFINDOR!" The hat shouted the last word, and the far left table got to its feet and cheered as John, grinning from ear to ear, joined his House.

Only the twins were left. "Weasley, Frederick" was Gryffindor as well, but he didn't sit down; he waited by the stool until "Weasley, George" joined him. Then the two of them ran for the Gryffindor table, bowing extravagantly to the applause.

Breathing heavily, they dropped into seats on either side of John and introduced themselves.

"Fred Weasley."

"George Weasley."

"Lovely to meet you."

"Welcome to Gryffindor."

"And you are?" they asked together.

"John...Watson, hi," he said slowly. His head spun. How could they talk so fast?

"Looking forward to a new school, new friends, new adventures and all that?" asked one of the twins (he'd already lost track of which was which).

"I suppose so," he began. "I hardly know what to expect. I'm a Muggle-born, you see, and I'd never heard of Hogwarts until I got the letter this summer. Is it anything like a Muggle boarding school? Are there sports and things?"

"There's Quidditch," said the other twin, a longing look in his eyes. "Mer-lin, Quidditch is going to be great."

"We've been playing since we could sit up on broomsticks," the first said, neglecting to explain to a bewildered John what this Quidditch might be.

"And then - of course it's not a school-sponsored sport but it ought to be - there's all the things you can do with moving staircases."

"Moving?"

"Charlie said he has a list of stunts hiding in the common room, even some he and his buddies could never do,"

"And we're going to check off that entire list."

"And then…"

* * *

 

John found Sherlock outside the Great Hall after the feast. "Congratulations!" he said.

"Thank you," said Sherlock. "I wasn't surprised, but I am glad I got to shove it to Mycroft."

"Eh?"

"All our family have been Slytherins - well, except our father's half of the family, but Mycroft takes it as a matter of personal pride to be a Slytherin family. I think he'd be just as proud no matter what House we were all in. He just wants something to be proud about."

"Seems like the type."

"And you, congratulations to you too. I took you for a Gryffindor right off."

"Cause Gryffindor is the BEST HOUSE EVER!" Sherlock jumped as the Weasley twins shouted in his ears.

"For God's sake! Who are you?"

John cracked up, covering his mouth with his arm. "Sherlock, this is Fred and George...er, George and Fred Weasley."

"Huh."

"Aw, don't be sore, Shirley," said Fred - or George, grabbing Sherlock's hand and shaking it off his arm.

Sherlock disentangled himself. "It's difficult being the middle child, isn't it?" he said. George - or Fred - quirked his eyebrow, then laughed it off and continued.

"Watson, the Gryffindor seventh-years are throwing a party for the first-years up in the common room. Coming?"

John hesitated. He didn't want to leave Sherlock alone, but a little dark-eyed girl rushed up to their group and said in a sharp brogue, "Holmes, the prefects are looking for us. Are you coming?"

Sherlock shrugged, said, "Good night then, John," and allowed her to drag him off to the Ravenclaws.

John smiled. "Let's see about this party."


End file.
